Dolls
by ShannonKind
Summary: fem!Dean Snapshots of Sam and his big sister, Dee, as they grow up learning about monsters and how to fight them. 5/5 I just want to thank everyone who is reading this and following this journey. This is the first thing I've published in over a decade, and this is a huge thing that anyone cares to read it. You are all wonderful. Thank you. I can't wait to write more.
1. Ghost

Ghost

Sam was crying again. He didn't used to cry this much when dad was away. Not until Dee slipped up and told him exactly what dad did when he left them alone in these crummy motel rooms. Told him what dad fought every day. Sure, Dee had tried to explain that he was a superhero, that he would always come back for them, but she didn't think Sam believed her. She'd tried comforting him, cooking for him, pulling out every toy they had, even flat out telling him to shut up. Nothing worked. Maybe this would.

Dee looked at the odds and ends she had gathered on the table, and hoped her father would never find out. There was a new white T-shirt from the pack of three he had just bought her, a pair of scissors she had lifted from the front desk of the motel, a pen she found in the dresser drawer, some dental floss, slat, an orange plastic lighter, and a needle she had found in her father's first aid kit. It was a ghost hunt this time. Hopefully he wouldn't need stitches. If he did, maybe he'd think he'd just lost it? It was small, right?

Keeping her hands from shaking, dad would kill her for this; she cut a blobby form from both layers of the T-shirt. It looked…nothing like a ghost. She had seen a ghost, once. It looked just like a person, until it disappeared. Or until someone lit the remains on fire. Oh well. The two pieces didn't meet exactly, and the edges were rough. It would work for what she needed. She clipped a long piece of floss and tied a knot in the end. Slowly and unevenly, she stitched the pieces together. Little bulges appeared where she pulled the stitches too tight or didn't hold the two pieces together quite right. She grimaced. Sammy had better appreciate this.

When the ghost was sewed almost all the way around, she started shoving the rest of the T-shirt into the gap. The floss stretched, but it held. She finished the last few sloppy stitches and drew a spooky face on it with the pen. It took three tries to get the ballpoint to work on the fabric. She hid the needle where she knew she would remember to put it back in her father's kit, and put the pen and scissors in the nightstand drawer before grabbing the doll, the salt shaker, and the lighter, and plopping next to her brother on the bed.

There were still tearstains on Sam's face, but he had stopped crying for now. Dee looked at the stuff in her hands, instead of seeing those marks on his face. "Okay. So this," she said, holding up the mutilated T-shirt, "is what dad is fighting. It's a ghost."

"Ghosts can't hurt people, right?"

Dee resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Of course they can hurt people. That's why he has to fight them. But they're nothing. Not compared to dad. Not compared to us. Hold this."

Sam took what she offered and raised an eyebrow. "Salt?" he asked in a small voice.

"That's right. Ghosts? They can't stand this stuff. Go on, throw it at him." Sam looked at her like she'd gone crazy. Maybe she had at this point. Kid had been crying for weeks. "Trust me. Do it." Rolling his eyes and cracking a smile, Sam sprinkled some salt on the little cloth effigy. "See Sammy? It's that easy. That's why we salt the doors and the windows when dad's gone. Ghosts hate the stuff. A real ghost? He'd just disappear, and leave you alone for a while. Iron works too."

"Can I hit it with iron now?"

Dee chuckled. "And break something? No way. I tell you what. The day you're bigger than me, I'll let you man the iron. Until then, you're on salt duty." Sam groaned, but at least he was still smiling a little.

"I'll never be bigger than you!"

Dee smiled. "That's the plan."

Suddenly, Sam's smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. Dee worried for a second that she'd said something wrong. Son of a gun! She wasn't supposed to be making him feel bad here! "Wait. Dee. Salt and iron. You said they'd only work for a while. What about when it comes back?"

Dee sighed in relief. This she could handle. She smiled, and there was a little bit of devil in her smile. She raised the cheap plastic lighter and flicked it on, wishing her father would let her carry a heavy metal one like his on her, instead of keeping a small plastic one in the room. "This is the best part. You find the bones, and you cover them in salt and light them on fire. Now, we've already salted this ghost here…" She moved the flam toward the white cloth, ready to burn the evidence of the money she'd wasted.

"Stop!" cried Sam, snatching the little toy. "Don't." He held it to his chest. Dee looked at her little brother, looking every one of his five years young, and took her finger off the lighter.

"I'm teaching you how to hunt here. Besides, you want dad to come home and find you playing with a doll? A ghost? What do you think he'd say about that?" She watched the wheels turn in her brother's head. He was a smart enough kid. He'd realize it had to be burnt.

"He won't find it," the boy said with conviction. He smiled and brought the little stuffed toy to his backpack, where he buried it in the bottom. "Want to build with Legos?"


	2. Bobby

**Bobby**

Warnings: mild cursing, canon or gentler

Dee paused for a moment to look out the window. Standing between the junk cars, Uncle Bobby was watching Sam, crouched low to the ground, digging in the dirt. She itched to sit out there and watch him, which was...weird. There was more to do when she stayed at the scrapyard than she ever had to do at the motels. Dusting, vaccuming, plus of course Uncle Bobby would find the time to teach her about the cars when he could, or ask her to help him in the kitchen. But then...there was this downtime. She'd gone out to keep an eye on Sammy and he'd come up behind her and scolded her away. "Go on girl, get. You don't need to do this, find something to play with." So she'd gone inside. Only...now what?

She was ten years old now. Too big for toys. What would she do with a toy anyway? But she had to do something to keep busy...and Sam had been asking for a hunter anyway. Dee pulled herself away from the window and crept up the stairs. The door to Uncle Bobbys room was open just a crack. She'd never been in there, but what the hell? It was just a room. The door squeaked a little as she opened it. The bed was pushed in a corner, covered with a quilt made by Bobby's wife, Karen...Aunt Karen?...no that would be too weird.

Dresser or closet? It would be easier to find what she was looking for in the dresser. On second thought, she might also find some things she was definitely *not* looking for. Uncle Bobby's briefs? Gross. No thanks. It was bad enough having to wash dad's and Sam's. The door to the closet was open anyway, like he'd gotten dressed in a hurry and hadn't bothered to close it. The stuff he hadn't worn in a while would be in the back. There was a suit...Uncle Bobby wearing a suit? That was a weird thought. Hell, the last time she'd even seen her father in a suit... Anyway, there were a couple of flannels towards the back that looked a little too snug. Hopefully. She pulled out one that was a slightly lighter shade of stained and put it on the bed. And it wasn't too hard to find a pair of jeans that were so torn up they probably should have gone to the rag pile two years ago. She threw it on the bed. That would take care of most of the project, but she still needed one more thing. No matter how hard she looked, there were no white tshirts in this closet. She flipped through once, twice, again. Not even brown ones. Ugh!

"Can I help you girl?"

Clothes and hangers clattered to the floor as Dee spun guiltily around. "Son of a bitch! I mean, that just slipped out! I mean..." Her head dropped to her chest. "Damn," she added under her breath.

"What in the hell do you think you're trying to do in here?"

"Uncle Bobby, I...you didn't need them, right, and I thought... Look, it's for Sam, ok? I'm making it for Sam."

Uncle Bobby walked overand started picking up the clothes she had dropped. "You going to help with this, kid?" Slowly Dee started helping put things back on hangers and passing them to her uncle to put them in the closet. There wasn't much to do, and as they worked he snuck her a smile or two. "Now, you gonna' tell me what this is all about?" He sat down at the little table, leaving Dee to sit on the bed.

Dee sighed. She couldn't meet his eyes. "I was looking for clothes."

She heard him scoff, but there was some amusement in it, at least. "Yeah, I'd gathered that, ya little idjit. What for? You got plenty of clothes. Feel like I've washed more clothes in the last two weeks with you and your brother here than I have in the last three months."

"I was going to make him a guy. Like, a hunter, a toy, to kill the ghosts and stuff. You know, he's a kid. He likes that stuff." Uncle Bobby looked almost...impressed? That's not...shouldn't he be pissed? "I made him a ghost a couple of months ago, and then..."

"Show me."

That's how Dee found herself going through her brother's backpack, pulling out the little ghost, pretty frayed at the edges already. "You made this yourself?"

"Well yeah. It's not exactly store-bought work, you know."

He held the little rag doll in his hands, slowly turning it around. "Not bad, girl. Not bad at all." He put it down carefully on the table and disappeared. Should she follow him? Should she sit here? Was this some kind of punishment for going through his stuff? Awesome. She rolled her eyes.

Bobby came back from wherever he was with a toolbox in hand. Crap. So apparently she had to work off her thievery. Whatever. She could do it. She didn't care. And she'd already been here two weeks. Dad would be back any day, and no way he'd wait for her to finish up. Of course, he might leave her at Uncle Bobby's until she finished her punishment, or he came back around this way. Damn. Whatever he wanted, she'd get it done quick and get it done right.

Dee tried to hide her grimace when Uncle Bobby opened the case and took out...a cloth tomato? With pins in it? Was this hoodoo or something? "All right kid. If you're going to do this, you might as well learn how to do it right. And since your daddy ain't gonna teach you, looks like it's up to me." Do what? Crap! But the words never left her mouth. She just stared, impassive, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Uncle Bobby lifted the tray inside the toolbox and took out a roll of some kind of cloth. Was this like, spell work or something? There was some kind of chalk, and scissors, and...what was he going to do? "Come here, girl." He must have noticed her hesitation, because he added "I ain't gonna bite, it's just a doll."

Dee scooted close and watched as his older hands steadily drew out a pattern, and pinned two pieces together to cut. They passed the pieces back and forth, taking turns cutting, pinning, sewing. Questions came from her mouth quietly at first, then bolder as she started to enjoy herself. At one point, Sam came in to watch, then quickly grew bored and settled on the floor with his army men. Uncle Bobby showed her how to turn the pieces inside out, so the seams wouldn't show, and even pulled some padding from a spare pillow to stuff the little man.

When the toy was finished, Dee inspected it closely. It was a little man, more or less. It had arms and legs and a head and everything. She smiled when she looked at it next to the little ghost. The seams were straighter, and it looked, good. She was...proud. Wow. That was kind of awesome. "Sam and I have some markers. I could make him some clothes," she said. But Uncle Bobby was ahead of her. He slipped his flannel off his shoulders and started cutting it.

Dee started to protest, but her uncle cut her off. "It's old anyway. Bout to come apart. Not much use except an oil rag." She knew that wasn't true, but the damage was already done, so she smiled, and watched him make a tiny shirt for Sam's doll. While he worked she pulled out the markers and carefully sketched a reddish brown beard on the little doll, adding slate gray eyes, since there was no way to match exactly. Not when it was that small. She even colored the pants in blue, like he was wearing jeans and boots. And when the toy was dressed, she called Sam up to inspect it.

"For me?" He asked. Uncle Bobby looked at Dee and she nodded. "Awesome!" said Sam, throwing his arms around first his sister then his uncle. He grabbed the Bobby doll and the ghost in his little hands and brought them right into battle: General Uncle Bobby leading the army against the creature of the night.

Dee watched her brother, but caught Uncle Bobby crossing his arms across his T-shirted chest. "Not bad, kid," he said, "not bad at all." The corner of her mouth turned up in a smile, and they stood there in silence while Sam's battle raged on.


	3. Shifter

**Shifter**

Dee laid out what was left of her present from Uncle Bobby on the little motel table. There was still most of the last white Tshirt, half a spool of black thread, a sewing needle, a pair of halfway decent scissors - the handles stained with some kind of black goop, but the blades were good enough, a chalk pencil - sharpened too quickly with a pen knife, and a couple of straight pins stuck in a fold of plaid cloth leftover from the Uncle Bobby doll's shirt. She'd made Sam a bunch of these little monsters in the past few months. He would pull them out and play with them after dad left, then make sure they were put away before he got home. Dee was glad. Making them was relaxing. Not that she was worried or anything. No way. Not her. She hoped dad would bring her back to Uncle Bobby's soon. He'd promised to show her how to make clothes, instead of just drawing them on. Plus, she would be out of supplies after tonight.

Dad had checked in a couple of hours ago, and she didn't expect him back until after she and Sammy had gone to bed. She looked over at her brother for a moment, killing ghosts and vampires with the tiny Sam and Uncle Bobby. She smiled, and started to sketch a human-like figure on the cloth. "Dee, I'm hungry. What's for dinner?"

She put the pencil down and sighed dramatically. "Why don't you get up and make something?" But it was all a bunch of crap and they both knew it. Still, she slammed the chair into the table and huffed and puffed her way to the little hot plate they kept in the room. Digging into the small duffel bag of food, she pulled out the first two cans her hand hit. "Chicken noodle soup or tomato?" She asked.

"Do we have mac and cheese?"

Dee dug through the duffel with a loud sigh. She pulled out the box. "Fine. But this time I get some. You eat like a moose!" Sam smiled and went back to his game. Dee found a cleanish pan and filled it with hot water, sitting it on the hot plate. She ripped open the box and listened to her brother play. "Die, vampire scum!" He made hissing noises as he poured fake salt over the little doll. "Aaahhh!"

"You don't kill vampires with salt," she called over her shoulder, stirring the noodles so they didn't overcook. She'd only had to eat that mess once. "You have to cut off their heads."

"Oh yeah!" She smiled as he reimagined the death, then went on to other battles. She added the milk and cheese powder and continued to stir until it was ready, calling what little hunting advice she had over her shoulder to her brother as she worked. She turned off the hotplate so Sam wouldn't get burned, and grabbed the pan to dish out their dinner.

She almost dropped the spoon when the door opened and her father walked in, limping a little, and grimacing. "Sam, move out of the way. Let dad through." She put down the dinner and ran to help him with his gun so he could sit. "Are you hungry dad? I made Sam some mac and cheese. There's enough for you, too."

"Sounds good." John Winchester sat on the edge of one of the motel beds, getting the blanket full of dirt and something darker that Dee had decided a long time ago it was better not to wonder about. She kept trying to catch her brother's gaze, willing him to put his toys away, but Sam just climbed up next to his father, still holding the small Sam Winchester toy.

"You okay, dad?" asked Sam.

Dee slipped away and started to dish out dinner for the guys in her life. "Nothing I couldn't take care of. What do you have there, son?" Dee cringed as Sam handed the toy over to their father and started talking animatedly about the adventures he'd created for it.

"Dinners ready!" she called desperately after she had poured two glasses of milk. "Sam, put your stuff away."

"You heard your sister," said John, heading over to the table. "Clean up then come sit and have dinner. It's late." He caught Dee with an annoyed stare. "I expect you'd be going to bed soon." She hung her head and quickly turned to find something else, anything else, to do. She had to dig for a while, but found another box of macaroni buried at the bottom of the duffel. It was pretty squished, and some of the noodles were probably broken, but that would be okay for seconds, and whatever she was going to eat.

Fifteen minutes later, Dee sat at the little table alone, all her sewing supplies put away, watching her father tuck her little brother into bed. She slowly spooned the chilling noodles into her mouth, and allowed herself a second to try to remember when he and mom used to tuck her into bed too. "Go to sleep," she heard, "Don't give your sister any trouble while I'm gone."

"You're leaving again?" Sam asked.

"Yes. Dee?"

She stood up quickly. "Yeah dad?"

"I'm going out. Take care of Sammy." And without even waiting for an answer he left.

She walked over to the bed and kissed her brother on the forehead. "Get some sleep, Sammy." Sam mumbled something she couldn't understand and she crossed the room to turn out the light.

Dee finished her dinner in the dark, then laid down next to her brother and tried to get comfortable enough to fall asleep. It must have worked, because the alarm woke her up at 7:30. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and stopped the alarm before it woke Sammy. She liked to have a few minutes to herself before starting his day. A glance at her father's bed told her it hadn't been slept in last night. She stood and stretched, then started her morning exercises, just like dad. Push ups, sit ups, jogging. Except as soon as she did her first sit up, she noticed something out of place. There was a bag on the little kitchenette table. Dad had stopped home. She paused for a minute, super tempted to check it out, but finished her sit ups instead. It had waited this long. But just in case it was important, she skipped the jog this morning.

She opened the bag and looked inside. Cloth dye from the grocery store, white t shirts, her own pin cushion. She closed the bag. She opened it again. New scissors, a pack of new sewing needles, a white and a black spool of thread. She hugged the bag to her chest. This would have cost a lot. Huh. She smiled to herself and put it away for later. "Rise and shine, Sammy," she said, and if her eyes were a little glassy it was because it was still early, right? "Breakfast."


	4. John

**John**

Warnings: blood, medical procedures, anxiety, alcohol

The door slammed open and Dee reached under the pillow for the knife she kept there. "Sam, pack the car. Dee, with me," her father's gruff voice filled the night. She re-sheathed the knife and put it on the bed for her brother to pack, turned on the light, and shook the sleep from his little body. She didn't see what her father had grabbed in the meantime, but when she got up to follow him his hands were full and he was headed to the bathroom.

She followed him into the room and found him leaning on the sink, staring into the mirror. His face was hard and angry. He tried to rub some black grime off his face, but his hands just left a darker stain. He stood, wincing a little, then pulled his shirt off, wincing more. Running from under his right arm, around to his back, was a deep gash. Dee let out an audible gasp, she was frozen to the floor. He caught her eye for half a second before unscrewing the cap to his bottle of tequila and pouring the yellow liquid over his injury. She saw the pain flash in his eyes, but he barely grunted. She saw the liquor wash more blood from the wound that would just not stop bleeding, "Get in here, Dee. I need you to stitch this up, I can't reach it." She took a step forward, but something held her several feet away, like a physical force. "Damn it, girl! I said get in here."

She took another step forward, but still couldn't bring herself to close that gap. He pulled his lighter from his pocket and began to run her sewing needle through the flames. "Dad, I can help Sam pack. We can drive to the emergency room. They can fix you up there."

"No time. Police were headed towards the warehouse by the time I was a few blocks away. We need to leave town, and I can't do that if I'm bleeding out." She took a deep breath and came closer, taking the needle from him. She started unspooling the black thread, but he stopped her. "Use this," he said, handing her a little white plastic container of dental floss. She looked up at him, green eyes seeming startlingly bright against her too pale face. "It's sterile," he explained, quieter this time. She closed her eyes and took another deep breath. Her fingers felt cold, her hands were shaking. But she could sew. Sure. No problem. She cut a length of floss and threaded it through the eye of the needle. See? No problem at all. She told herself that her breath wasn't coming out ragged. And no way did that whimpering sound come out of her. Breathe, damn it.

She steeled herself and looked at the wound she was about to close. And groaned. Something was wrong. Her vision was fuzzy. And then she realized she was crying. John Winchester grabbed his daughter's small pink wrist in his large blackened hand. "Get ahold of yourself. You can do this. You *don't* cry." She sniffed, and rubbed the rest of the tears from her eyes with the back of her other hand. She nodded, but didn't trust her voice to answer. He let her go, but still she didn't move. He took a long drink from the tequila bottle, and for a moment she wished she was old enough to drink too. "You know how to sew. Why do you think I bought you that stuff? So you could make little toys for your brother? It was practice. So that one day, when I needed you to, you could do this. I need you," he grimaced, and it took him a moment to continue, "to do this."

She thought of all the toys she had made, that's all this was. Just another toy. Ok. Fine. Deep breath. She started. Oh god. It didn't sound like thread through cloth at all, more like a metal zipper closing smoothly. Her stomach clenched, but she kept going, stealing glances at her father as he chugged more of that awful booze.

He never once looked back at her as she worked, he just stared distantly into the mirror while she struggled on in detached silence. Her hands hardly shook until she tied the little surgeon's knot: over and over and pull, but somehow, she couldn't pull it tight. She tried again, but by now her hands wouldn't stop shaking, and the blood on her fingers kept making them slip off the floss. Again her father's big hands blocked her way, he took the floss, and pulled the ends tight. Dee heard her father move to the mirror, but her head was buried in her hands. He didn't say anything for a long moment, just stood there quietly. "Not bad," he said, almost to himself. "Not bad. Keep practicing," and then he left the room. She could hear his muffled voice tell Sam he was going to unlock the car.

Two deep breaths. She heard her father leave the motel room and let out a scream. She punched the wall until her hand bled, then wrapped it in toilet paper and went out into the room. All of their bags were laid out on the bed. "Son of a bitch!" Keep practicing? No. No way. Never. Oh god, no. Never. She dug through the bags until she found all the little dolls, a Sam, a Dee, a Bobby, a John, a dozen assorted monsters. They made her stomach twist into an even tighter ball. She threw them into the trash can, then grabbed as many of the bags as she could, stumbling under their weight, and carried them out into the night. She helped Sam load them into the car, then climbed in and slammed the door behind her. Their father went back into the motel room one last time to check everything was in order, probably so the police couldn't track them. She made sure her brother was buckled securely and buckled her own belt. She sat, in the quiet, in the dark. Face an impassive mask staring out the window, she waited for the next order.


	5. Epilogue

Somewhere in the future, John will open a large steel door, letting light into the storage room for the first time in years. He will have a purpose for being there, he always does. And he will get to that, but maybe not just yet. First he takes a moment to run calloused hands over his most secret treasures: a frayed hat from when Sammy did "Death of a Salesman", his bowling trophy, Dee's first homemade sawed off, the boards she broke learning martial arts. Black boxes with strange inscriptions line one of the walls, and it's towards these he will finally head, carefully avoiding the tripwires and other traps he laid out with care who knows how long ago and will check again before he leaves.

After adding another box to the shelf, this one will contain a cursed rabbits foot, he will finally allow himself to look the one place he had been avoiding. A small shelf, something he'd made himself, with just three small items on top. And then the memories will overtake him.

Dee, ten years old, and terrified. Hell, John was scared too, and if Mary had still been alive, he might have admitted it. But you don't share that shit with a scared kid. So he talked her through the stitches, keeping her anger hot enough that the fear wouldn't break her, just like he'd done in the Marines.

Those freckles. So dark against her pale skin. Green eyes red with the tears he told her not to cry. She had cried so much when Mary died, even in her sleep she cried. He wasn't going to let himself be the cause of her tears. Not then, not ever.

Her hands, covered in blood. He'd watched in the mirror the whole time she worked. He couldn't bring himself to look at her face, not once she started. He was damn proud of her, though, soldiering on like that. He even told her she'd done good.

He could only guess why she threw out the dolls she'd so lovingly made for Sam. But when his eyes swept the hotel room one last time he saw the mock ups of his family lying in the garbage can. He'd hidden them in his duffel, cleaned them off, brought them here. He still wasn't sure why. Just felt right.

When he closes the locker door this time, they will be the last thing he looks at. Dee in the middle, placed just slightly in front of the effigies of Sam and John. There they are. The three of them, standing against the world. Older-certainly, more worn-perhaps, but together, and ready.


End file.
